Page 63 of Lunar Crest University

She shakes her head, and the small smile she has worn this whole conversation fades away. The sadness in her eyes makes me regret even asking. “Not as much since I started college. That’s my fault, though. I should visit them more.”

The conversation is interrupted as the waiter takes our food order, and I can’t help but feel thankful for it. I don’t like seeing the light leave her features when she talks about not getting to see her parents much. Maybe because I relate to it. But my not seeing my family is my own fucking doing—I distance myself when shit starts to go south in my life, and they pay the price. Like I said, I’m not a good guy, but I’d give my life for theirs.

“Do you get to see your family?” she asks once the waiter leaves.

“I just sawmi mamábefore the trip, actually.”

Brushing her hair back over her shoulders, her lips curve in the corners. “Do you look like her?”

“A bit. I was always told I look more like my father.”

The way she’s staring at me again…Fuck. It’s like she’s always genuinely interested in what I have to say, like she’s clinging to every word.

“This is nice.” She motions between the two of us as she glances around. Her fingers wrap around her wine glass like she’s using it for stability before her eyes meet mine again.

“It is,” I agree.

“Can I ask you something?”

I nod.

“Now that I know you better…” She pauses, pulling her lip between her teeth. “I can’t help but wonder why on Earth you’d be getting almost killed in an alley at night?”

My molars crash together at her question. I knew it was eventually going to come up, of course I knew that, but I guess, in the midst of our trip, I forgot about it. Being here was like being in another universe, and with it literally just being the two of us, it makes the delusion that much more believable. For a moment, I forgot about Javier and the danger Finley was in.

Maybe I am a dumbass.

“I told you once that I’m not a saint, Finley.”

Once again, we’re interrupted, but this time, with the food. Relief floods my system that maybe she’ll drop the topic and move on to something different, but I know she’s a little worry wart who can’t leave something alone if it's bothering her.

“It’s hard to picture you as anything but,” she mutters, shoving a bite of her pasta into her mouth as she avoids eye contact.

I swallow.

Fucking hell.

“You knew him.” Even with her vagueness, I know she’s talking about Rosco. “How did you know him?”

“I used to work with him.”

There’s no point in lying, not about this. Not when I’ve already dug myself a deep enough hole as it is.

“Before you were a professor?” she assumes quietly.

I nod.

“What kind of work?”

The bite of food in my mouth sours at her question, but I swallow it down anyway. “The kind that you’re better off not knowing about.”

Her eyebrows crinkle as she gazes at me, and I watch her pupils dilate. The slow realization shadows her features like alooming cloud, but she quickly masks it as she takes another sip from her wine glass.

“I guess I knew that,” she whispers, but I have to wonder if it was meant more for herself than for me with how hushed it was.

It’s silent between us for a while as we chew tired bites of our food. I should say something. I know I should, but I can’t find the right words. Not that there are any for something like this. It was always there in plain sight, and I tried to warn her again and again. She literally met me when Rosco had gotten the upper hand on me in an alley. I was bleeding all over her bathroom, and she still refused to believe I was a bad guy.

“Why did you become a British Lit professor?”

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